Dinner Drop-ins

After years of salsa abuse and my own special brand of blackened anything cooking, I have developed a fairly tough gut for dining. So pick your peppers and dose me with the feisty ghosties or hurry with your spicy curry – it won’t matter ‘cause I can take it. Yes my steel drum of a tum not only weighs a ton but it’s lined with pig iron too so I’m forged from Diet COKE and squeal until filled with grease, but am rarely nauseous.

Now don’t prove me a liar by placing my puffy pink posterior on a tip-toppy yacht in awful sloppy chop. Don’t roll me in coasters that are stead-fast boasters over their belly-churning loops and adrenaline swoops, best fit for gung-ho young souls. No, as long as my bloated bobble-head remains gray-side up, spin-less, and vertigo-free, signs of chyme will never reach the white light of day, pester guests, or decorate unsuspecting shirts with regurgitant leis.

So with this in mind clearly there is little risk in admiring the scenery of my neighbor’s gorgeous greenery. What possibly could turn the tides of my insides while un-canning hot-plate condensed soup or tossing cold-bowls of shivering salad for simple supper sustenance? Logically nothing, except  the bright, green-bladed grassy knoll next door at first blush is not as peaceful as it seems, for secrets hide within its lush brush – the stuff of darkest dreams.

Only two unbridled rhinos roam this land yet clearly freely frequent its open spaces looking for a bank in need of very big high yield deposits. What turned my face of fascination to one of ashen was the horror of my neighbor in tippy-toe terror, repeatedly ringing her yard armed with a fanged feculence trap, mapping unappetizing tubular Gigantor scat.  Suddenly with every weighty skewer of manure showed, my sturdy stomach’s hunger bowed, and soon made an up-turned pitch towards worry, in need of a pink Pepto potation cure in a hurry. Since Christmas is far away a recurring fear of coal stowed in my red n’ green hearth sock should not rank priority today.  But given a possible premonition from my neighbor’s frighteningly saggy baggy collection, my fireplace should shudder in fear, if Santa’s hefty sack is stocked to the top with a year end full from eight regular reindeer!

ValenTIMES

As I have gotten older and have grown a bit wider than my white-ish diapers, I don’t embrace the Valentine’s day fervor like I once did as a younger chunky cherub. Part of the issue is I never have understood why getting SHOT in the heart by a nekkid winged bow-bound baby could ever be a good thing for romance or my health. Hey I listen to NPR you know – BOWS are for violins and when I want my wife’s attention I’ll just crawl into the cast iron bathtub NEXT to hers out in the woods like all contemporary coots.

I never envision my ValenTIMES all that romantic anyway since I routinely attract the WRONG kind of attention from the opposite sex when I’m out in public. Can I help it if nobody appreciates the fact that I run a little hot-blooded and chocolate melts in my hands instead of my mouth. Regardless of how often I try, few people other than my mother appreciate a good Hershey kiss and the resulting choco lip print I leave behind.

Also I sincerely love my family but c’mon $5 for a stupid pink greeting card with a red heart and insipid inscription on it? At least with those big boxed foil candy hearts I get one or two nasty waxy chocolate chews for that kind of costly cold cash. Funny too as pricey roses goes-es, the longer the stem - the better to pick noses, and ironically the more thorns to drive home the sincerity of my love.

  

Nope keep that little rosy flying seraph’s spell far away from me ‘cause V-Day is really just a chance to stock up on devil’s forks and fresh tiny pink hearts in case my bloated Cajun blackened one needs a spare. Don’t worry I’ll get in the Valentine spirit as soon as I open a bag of those ‘conversation hearts’ and have a sexy talk with my sweat-shop silkworms on why I cotton to silky skivvies. All I need to do is embarrass them just enough so that they will spin me some REDDENED twill and a slippery ‘G-string’ thing – which if I’m lucky I might get to strum some with ol’ Cupie’s Pernambuco BOW! 

Grinch-mas Wish

Usually when ‘Grinchy’ companies run short on glam, glee n’ glitter as well as biz sense, they hire a consultant to reign in their silly sleigh problems and swing for the fence. It seems Christmas is getting earlier every year, though my presents are smaller and less costly I fear; clearly a reminder for the season is due, before this infestation affects more holidays in view. The last thing I need is New Years on a budget, or still worse yet - a Valentines heart more bleeding than delectably rich choco chocolate.

What’s wrong is that people have forgotten the season and what it’s all about and that it’s for ‘Pleasin’. Oh sure good cheer, bright lights, and snow are all fine, but the longer the receipt then the better the time. Just give me large boxes and fat-filled candy too, since excess  and bigger are always better it’s true.

The REAL Santa is great if you only want one, but legions of red bucket fingering ding-ringers are always more fun after given some rum. Reindeer never smell quite as nice in person, unless you have eggs with the fried n’ sausage-fied tastier version. Who needs to give and a softy spot for the poor, when MY need for lofty stuff and golden swag is importantly MORE. 

Now don’t get me wrong I wish no hit and miss ‘Grinch-mas’ to your nutcrackers or you, nor do I expect special days to run smooth on cue too. I just wish the material world to remember it all, that there’s far more to the season than faith, family, and charity tales so tall.  Remember my practical mantra to take my advice, whatever you buy for yourself,  buy early, buy often, and buy me at least TWICE!

MERRY GRINCH-MAS!!!

A Thanks-giver story

I know Thanksgiving is getting close when my Mother starts turning her ceramic jack-o-lanterns and candle holders around to hide their faces and reveal their backsides to the world. Don’t worry it is not as disrespectful as it sounds, it’s just that nobody wants to see legions of leering Halloween pumpkin pusses glaring and staring back while trying to stealthily sneak a snack before the big holiday feast. I already feel guilty enough since I have to violate a frozen turkey’s personal space and literally get under the thing’s skin with a mixture of herbs, spices, and a warm mayo massage.

A true thanks-giver like me will eat just about any broiled or baked deceased beast as long as you park those sickly sweet potatoes and chunky cranberry chutney around back where the slop trough wafts. It makes sense since portly Pilgrims like me cannot reach the peak of the day until my belt slips a slot and I have made an indelible impression upon any house guests and at least one rickety recliner.  Yes, there is nothing like pinching a sofa after a hearty carb-laden meal and a couple of slices of warm pecan and pumpkin pie.

As far as Thanksgiving traditions go I have never given in to the ‘football thing’ so in that regard I am probably a bit of a disappointment to my Father who IS a fan. It’s not that my family ever expected me to be interested in contact sports anyway since I only wear glasses to read restaurant menus and newsprint. I just figure that my clan probably hoped for a head injury to explain my odd behaviors and occasional use of eye make-up to block the glare from the white caps of whipped cream desserts.  

Of course the real meaning of a traditional Thanksgiving gathering is not entirely lost on me. I know the event means a lot more than parades, excess caloric consumption, and gadfly gossip about off-centered relatives and brainless  causality arguments over which came first, ‘the chicken or the maize’. Indeed I always remember to celebrate and give thanks to what REALLY matters on this special day - an ad-laden lead-weight of a newspaper brimming over with Black Friday discounts n’ deals!

I could 'Carrot' Less!

My wife and I recently discovered that those little pinkie sized carrots at the market don’t grow that way but are actually carved from their big orange brethren into the mini ‘nary- a-carrot’ versions. Sadly I am all thumbs so to cut up skinny carrots in my own image is impossible so no matter how hard I try, they will end up too fat. Fortunately I am not a quitter so inadvertently whenever I get hold of a peeler now, even if the carrot starts out as long as a leg and as thick as a tree, in the end, it will always give me the finger.  

I know it would be a lot cheaper to just buy the banded bunched carrots instead of paying for the cello bag full of of washed midgets. But the problem is to this day I can’t eat a cleaned raw carrot while the stalk is still on for fear of being shot as a fat gassy rabbit raiding the root cellar. Of course that means just like most folks, I resort to the store cut packaged variety and must always entertain myself with a temporary orifice insertion or two before eating.

Honestly other than an occasional yam around the holidays, I can’t think of any other orange food I would shove in my face without serious second thoughts. Oh sure you marmalade fans will disagree but I gag just at the sight of those disposer chunks of rind and whatnot floating around in some translucent synaptic gelatin.  Also lets all acknowledge right now that slimy ‘punkin’ guts’ might make for a good pie with enough sugar and spice but they won’t win any beauty or smell tests right out of the gourd’s raw craw.

Though good for me, fresh carrots are a bit of a pain to snack on since I can’t hear the television over the sound of the carotene-crushing reverberation through my skull.  I know they can cut them down to size but can’t they grow these things in the image of lettuce or something equally feckless and flaccid so I can eat in peace? Oh well,  It seems like other babies don’t mind glass jars full of orange n’ messy goo so maybe if I stew a few, bear down and coo,  I DOO TOO!

Red Letter Days

Out of all the holidays, July 4^th used to be my favorite because I could blow stuff up (other than pool toys) without going to jail. My second favorite holiday is Halloween since I’m free to walk among the living and scare kids on one night as much as they scare me daily over the rest of the year. If I do a good job of tricking treatsters, I can score even MORE sugar than I normally get when dressed as a weird geezer slogging to my neighbors with a sweet recipe in hand. 

Next on that list is Thanksgiving because it truly is a day of simple pleasures like stuffing bread into the dark headless cavity of poultry and buttering up loose pink skin (sometimes on the turkey too). St. Patrick’s isn’t bad when you’re as partial to pinching as I am and VETerans day is really special because like most folks, I love patriotic pets.   So what about the status of big ‘gifty’ days like Christmas, the day when I was hatched, and of course everybody’s fav holiday - tax day on April 15th. 

Christmas-time feels more like a noisy reindeer race starting with Kwanzaa (which I assume is on black Friday), seven days of candles pitchfork-perched in the middle, and ends  by cleaning up annoying tinsel, enormous credit card and travel bills. Beyond Santa’s blinding BLURR on my saddle so many taxes are due by New Years, which means by mid April I’m sick of giving the government or anyone ANYTHING, except maybe an oversized foam finger.

My birthday dropped a few notches at a young age when my parents FORGOT what date I was actually born on and made me wait sleeplessly in anticipation until the day AFTER to celebrate. Now my b-day is more of a celebration of still having thick wild hair, though I’m not sure if it counts as much when it knots endlessly from my ears, eyebrows, nose and toes? Don’t worry though I intend to seek revenge when my folk’s old-fogey faculties become completely compromised by the ravages of time. Yes, I will simply write only ONE loving letter to my parent’s filled with praise and prose. I intend to thoughtlessly enthrall them with my attention and affections revealed in that same letter OVER and OVER again for every holiday. Now that’s what I call a real ‘READ letter day’ – of course, as long as I can remember what I wrote in that letter the last time so I can write it AGAIN!